Feel the Earth Move
by Novoux
Summary: This isn't the first time Sinbad meets an intruder sneaking through his window. Only this time, this intruder can't hold his own.


This isn't the first time.

No, not as the window to his bedroom rattles—it's never locked, no one is foolish enough to try—and slides, slick and cold with the sudden gust of night breeze heading in from the sea. It is not that cold outside, not in Sindria where most nights are comfortably warm, enough to have no need for heavy clothing and warm blankets.

But they're still there, for nights like this. Nights beginning with the low hang of the sun over the sea only a sliver of a fingernail crescent, dropping low ending from this world and casting the island in darkness, only until the torches light and the streets come alive. Sinbad finds the traditions of his own country always something to admire, something to watch in the quieting hours of dusk to nightfall. The lights down below don't reach past the shudders of a window but he can still watch, wait, listen to the sound of his people preparing to head home for the night or businesses just starting up, beckoning to all that want to explore the night and the lights decorating the streets. No clothing ever changes unless for special occasions, going out and trying to appeal but always the allure of night, perhaps even forgetting who they are to live the life they never have.

Maybe it's the reason why only at nightfall only once in several months his window slides open, no hands to leave traces of ever being and clothing to suit the dark of night high in a castle. No people to watch as the intruder slides in, without a sound but the rustle of clothing starting to become too big for a frame that shrinks with each and every visit. Sinbad doesn't think much out loud but inside his head are many questions that continue coming, unable to be answered as the reason why his window makes no sound when it slides open, shadows crawl in and invade the peace of a quiet castle where no one dares to make a move on the beloved king. Not considerable to his people when Sinbad is a man of honor and justice, even when he knows he's not as the legends can stretch tall tales of bravery and courage and this is only a harsh reality when he can't find the bravery to clear the overflow of too much thinking.

Shadows slide to the floor, a rustle of cloth in their wake and a puffy braid of hair, now loose and strands pulling free which is unusual for the immaculate taste of said shadow. The intruder isn't a threat, but he can be in an instant if he gets up and decides not to play dead but Sinbad in his wisdom, still exaggerated but very much a presence within the movements of getting up from his desk to glance and approach the wild animal that dares to invade his castle. Without its claws it can still bite and as much as Sinbad wants it to be it's not— _easy—_ something to consider so lightly. He is capable enough of defending himself and he tells himself the (biggest _lie_ he's ever heard) that the reason why the window is open is only to allow light to travel in and to accept that he can face any challenge that comes up on him on a summer night. There mustn't be another reason for such. If he over-complicates it then it's—admitting more than a king is meant to say—just not worth the argument.

Silent is not how he walks. Quiet, but still the tap of bare feet on the ground and waiting for an explanation, hair in black strands strewn about in a devilish sigh of no harm done and nothing to think more of than a simple mishap. But as this isn't the first time and Sinbad sometimes forgets the truth for convenience, it doesn't work quite that way. When his feet approach the body he won't use his toes to push it over, no need to sacrifice his foot for a mistake of a cause when he knows better. Instead of watching for much longer and due to the fact his kindness is his own demise at times, he swallows the air that collapses in his lungs trying to scratch its way out just as the buzz of questions that never have answers begin to swarm.

"Can you stand?" What a simple question. So easy to forget who he's talking to even though none of his guards or generals will eavesdrop on them. It's a lucky system of trust to have in a palace that doesn't do secrets very well but since they tolerate his own alcohol habits they can tolerate leaving a capable king in peace. All is not in peace tonight, however, and precisely the reason why if Ja'far or Masrur come upon this then they wouldn't understand how this occurrence makes itself happen in the materializing on his bedroom floor, almost expectant of a visitor to which the king would never admit to knowing about.

There is no answer and if he listens he can hear the sound of ragged breaths, soft and delicate whispers on palace grounds knowing that if they get any louder then it's all over for him. Sinbad kneels despite better judgment but he knows that nights like this don't normally start like this. Usually there are red jewels outlined with purple and black smoke, light hands applying it he can only imagine for the effect of making red a piercing color of the blood he's capable of spilling. They always stare at him, smirk and laugh and light up in explosive delight when his mouth forms words of taunts and insults that never fail to strike the smallest chord inside Sinbad's own unfortunate sense of knowing there is more behind the words than his visitor cares to admit.

His tongue stills, in between teeth chewing on the strong muscle thinking that if this isn't going as per normal and the last visit was in early months of colder temperatures then there must be (something everything too many things) nothing wrong. Then is not the time to be thinking of but now, hearing sounds of harsh and ragged and not noticing yet of the pools of red starting to drip onto his floor, causing stains that are harder to wash away when they are already gone. And Sinbad knows it's not polite to stall a one-sided conversation with the other side silent and breathing too hard to know he's okay and that this is just a ploy to rile him.

"Judal," it slips over his tongue from months of practice and endless echoes of the sound of letters coming together to form just one name. One that means more than the sun rising in the east and setting in the west and more to realize that if it spills then there isn't the same sense of wanting to take back the word, make it so that he's never said a thing and admitting to—"Can you stand, or do you need assistance?" In the back of his mind Sinbad remembers (how fitting to choose a time to think of it _now_ ) that Judal hates the word _help_ and treats it like a snake's venom blackening his veins.

Sinbad is never that confident to say he knows all the reasons why.

Harsh and wet, a cough spilling out and then Sinbad may start to have an understanding of realizing all is never well with nights like this. "I'm...fine," On the floor, the black clothing a stark contrast to the pale expanse of white skin over his back, wrapping a little tighter around his spine and with each intake of breath the bones poke through easily enough. And when Sinbad is about to counter that statement he thinks he hears another choking sound of a cough, rising up and strangling from the depths of Judal's throat and more red drops start to rain from an open mouth struggling to catch breaths to feed himself with. Parched lips only start to crack like the earths of dried deserts filled with droughts and the fallen faces of the people who have to leave, only that Judal is no person to stay in one place with many responsibilities on his shoulders.

"You don't look fine." Sinbad isn't trying to taunt him. Simply stating the facts, as he knows to do in situations like these in order to not lose his temper that is very well-kept and he knows not to patronize the Magi any more than he already tries not to. Night is not for arguing and it's the fact that Judal can easily get inside Sindria is only means of keeping his tongue stilled from doing too much damage. But even though Judal's body trembles in a shiver and the pale skin of his pack has shadows looming over it Sinbad knows he can't touch or it'll be trouble for both of them.

Judal won't say anything useful to help himself. In his last breaths he would rather taunt than admit defeat. That's how he has always been, dark rukh surrounding him in chattering whispers and haunts of keeping himself away from any means of accepting what Sinbad tries to offer. He is, after all, the only one who does (or so he likes to think but the theory starts to line itself up with this visit, just like the others) try to offer something to make standing easier. Like breathing over crimson drops that may as well come from his eyes and the same breaking smirk under pressure under fire melting the ice in his veins and the only time he's warm is when sick and burning himself past the limits of knowing his own strength.

"Idiot." Judal sucks in a shallow breath, still heaving and rasping like knuckles grazing the ground when he tries to push himself up. Sinbad prefers not to comment when he sees the struggle it takes to rise himself up and up and up but it's never high enough and therefore his body gives out on itself, collapsing back down to the depths of the floors where Judal has always been put in a place he doesn't belong in.

There are no words to be of a comfort to the enemy. No meanings or simple gestures to show that he's not trying to hurt what he starts to see as cracking so he won't say a thing, not when Judal will never see and refuses to see past the only things he's been made to believe. Sinbad doesn't think it's generous to help out the enemy who lies on his floor and cannot summon the strength to stand or the words to summon insults and taunting more and more, waging war with an empire already on the verge with another country that isn't Sindria. It's almost insulting, realizing how selfish it may sound that at least the Kou Empire is not attempting to end Sindria like it wants to, simply wanting the bragging rights of taking over an empire of peace that Sinbad himself has managed to keep standing.

A hand, thick with calluses from paperwork mountains high and the skin pulling tight around the hard knobs of training with weaponry comes to Judal's shoulders, keeping the touch light and nothing to make Judal think he's planning more than he wants to. It still makes him flinch and Sinbad watches the shudder down his back, bruises coming to the light filtering in from the closed window previously hidden in the shadows and swallowing down the reasons why the marks bother him enough to rouse any sort of contempt for the cause of them. Maybe so are the reasons that skin swells so tight ready to pop from the bruise over his tailbone traveling beneath cloth and black, already enough to see but the full extent is something Judal will never speak of.

Another hand to his forehead, Judal hasn't made a move to attack him and because he can't do much more Sinbad thinks this is only one of the reasons why. So many questions beginning, the answers starting to form in the frustrating dark tendrils of not wanting to know for his own sanity. "You have a fever. How long has it been like this?" Straight to fact and Judal gives a huff of breath, murmuring something incoherent along the lines of _stupid waste of—_ and Sinbad has heard enough, sick or not from his enemy's mouth.

"Long enough," coughing as Sinbad's arms try to pull him off of his back and over to his side, hissing under a breath that could be a whine if he was a lesser man. It's not and Sinbad reminds himself that even if he is a king he cannot spare much to an enemy—but this must be different. Different in the way that Judal hisses and worries his bottom lip between his teeth when bloodstains and injuries come to the dim lighting of the room. Only candles at the far end, near the bed as they splay and dance like shadows, the same way Judal makes a strict point of ignoring Sinbad when he can't simply attack him from the compromised position both are in.

Blood streaks down Judal's chin and leaks from his eyes, from his purpling cheek to the golden bangles sitting on his throat, an intimidating glimmer when the light hits and the rise of dark purple skin comes to meet Sinbad's eyes. One look at him, still refusing to glance up and his eyes are closed, extinguished from the flames that burn in the color of blood when this conversation won't continue. Maybe tomorrow, maybe never if Judal sees to never come again or simply— _dies—_ and the thought is a darker path Sinbad's mind does not wish to follow. For all that he has known about Judal, there are rarely marks that stain his skin and make him bleed like he does, dripping onto the floor from the corners of his lips and the stain of a gash running from his eyebrow into his unbraided hair.

Such thoughts should not be in the kingdom of saving those in need. Judal—not usually someone to consider, not until the recent months upcoming where he comes exhausted and unable to do more than use his abilities to travel the distance here—matters for the reason that he cannot even move, much less get a comfortable breath of air while his cheeks start to burn. His entire body is hot, on fire and Judal is normally icy cold to the touch from Sinbad's past accidental experiences of knowing the Magi and his tempestuous mood swings, often fueled by the unknown.

When he can safely move his arms to support Judal's weight equally (so much thinner, has he lost more?) he lifts Judal up, hearing no protest this time and finds it an odd sort of show of either giving up—something Judal would never bring himself to do—or simply being too exhausted to speak. Sometimes it's harder to know what he thinks, mainly when his breaths are too shallow for someone who is stronger than bruises and cuts and everything in between that has been inflicted unto him by some unknown force. Just when Judal starts to become a little more unguarded in their talks, a little less holed up and cagey for all that it's worth when Sinbad asks the simple questions—

Carrying Judal to his bed, he doesn't think of the potential bloodstains or if anyone (no one will come in, he knows this for a fact) sees Judal. All Sinbad sees is a man pushed too far, beaten back down and covered in bruises too large to be accidental. Another cough comes from Judal's cracked lips, shifting away from Sinbad as soon as he feels the soft silk of the king's bed and he never speaks once during this encounter. Never wanting to put himself in a place to be made vulnerable and Sinbad has the strong belief Judal does not believe Sinbad to consider him anything but small, no matter if he curls into the sheets and sighs like a dying man. All that matters is Sinbad's brain working on autopilot and thinking of the blood on his floor, first to head to his private bathroom and grab concoctions he's kept for cases like these without managing to explain why he needs them in the first place.

"Drink this. It will help with your fever." Sinbad holds a vial of green liquid, dull and only shines when it's in the candlelight for the same feverish burn that lights up the slivers of Judal's eyes when they crack open. Blood red, murky and burning hotter than normal with the flames licking up the sides of everything they both know and the things that are best kept between them and them only on nights of visitors that aren't meant to be in enemy territory. But when Judal's hand doesn't grab for the vial (usually so eager on other nights when he can't catch his breath, maybe a stumble or two to alert Sinbad to how well Judal can hide pain) Sinbad doesn't think—it's better not to and always the way to avoid the many questions bubbling up again, like rukh starting to flutter around Judar evaporating into air with the heat of desert and fever and so much anger in his eyes that Sinbad always sees. Instead he pops off the cork to the bottle, one hand snaking through dirty locks of hair and holding up Judal's head as he tips the vial past bloody lips.

At first it trickles down easily—until Judal starts to cough and choke, splattering more of the medicine before Sinbad can take it away and place it on his bedside table. Clothes stain with green and red, both darkening when they dry and Sinbad's head is spinning, watching Judal retch and choke when it's not supposed to be like this but denying it will only make it worse, aggravate the headache he has and force him to face the reality of why his mind is buzzing hot and loud in his ears pulsing blood. With a hand free Sinbad takes it to Judal's chin, wiping away the splatters of tonight and trying to maintain the war going on inside his head.

"It burns," Judal manages on short breaths, eyes threatening to close again not feeling or not caring of the gentle touches it takes to clean off his chin. His eyes are still bright and burst like stars with explosions of molten lava and more heat, raising the temperature emanating from his skin to the overall appearance of malaise written in the short scowl set in his lips. "What...trying to kill me?" he speaks in short gasps, soft and light but still prominent in the breathlessness displayed and a silent chuckle follows, simply too much to make with his throat giving out on him, making talking impossible.

"Drink," Sinbad insists once again, vial tipping back through Judal's lips and this time there is hardly a resistance to speak of—not possible when the Magi's eyes close again and Sinbad finds himself doing all the work, from careful administering of medicine to coaxing Judal to swallow with the brush of his fingers on his throat. As soon as the vial empties itself and Judal's bottom lip stains with a slight flush of green Sinbad can only concur that the Magi won't fight, not tonight and not when his eyes don't open even when Sinbad's hand does not retract from his head. Inside his head he feels the buzzing of wanting to ask for the meaning of the bruises and the blood and why Judal finds relief in coming into enemy territory. And on the line of—Judal is secretive, sly, and full of himself at best—what can reduce an arrogant man to a fragmented shell.

Judal is not broken, however. He never breaks.

No pressure can force him to crack and shatter but the cracks in his skin give to the thoughts and questions Sinbad has, knowing he never speaks of them because in the relationship he has with Judal that is nearly nonexistent unless if unfriendly he doesn't ask for the favor of sparing himself the harsher fact that Judal wouldn't bother to answer. A palm goes to Judal's burning forehead, the skin sweltering hot and flushed down to his cheeks and rising up what little he can see of his throat. Either the medicine works or he'll have to find something—possibly a remedy for bruises in his bathroom's cabinet. So far the extent of the injuries must be something grand if it can destroy a Magi's power for this long, sparing only enough to escape as a cruel twisted joke of playing with a toy because the Kou Empire does not consider their actions at most times.

One empty vial on the desk, catching warped reflections of candlelight. The night will surely be long. "Have you eaten, Judal?" No crack of blood red eyes glaring him down, sizing him up as only competition to beat and conquer until he can have his way and take what he desires (for what purpose Sinbad will never know) until satisfied. Satisfaction does not ever last long with Judal with his constant desire to shed blood of others and the loss of his own blood speaks volumes of in order to keep Judal this beaten down for long he has been drained of any resources he has, then simply thrown around as a useless slave on the last legs of life.

The next answer sounds close to a whisper of wind breezing into the room for only a glancing visit but the window is not open and it is Judal who cannot bring sound to the negative and going by the narrowing waist of his combined with the cheeks starting to look hollow Sinbad assumes that his own handlers do a poor job of feeding him. Tonight Sinbad finds interesting when Judal can bring the cocky arrogance of showing up without warning as he usually does when there are no visitors in the palace—this is common, if not intentional to avoid the young Magi who does visit or any others that Judal despises as if he can't bear the thought of any others knowing he is here instead of nights for talking and nights of holding back the shudders of pain in his footsteps trembling up his spine to curl deep into his muscles.

Sinbad knows several things about Judal, the most already being sorted out and the few things that aren't exactly necessary but _important_ come to mind and his fingers slide out from dirtied hair, holding up a hand in a sign of waiting—possibly for the morning sun and Judal's snarled proclamations of tonight never happening—when he pads over to his door to where two guards are stationed for the night. One short pull to alert his guards to his presence, carefully hiding the shadow of Judal when he meets two pairs of eyes awaiting orders or perhaps a greeting and an explanation for why the king is still awake at this time of night.

"Would you fetch me some fruits from the kitchens? And if you are able to manage a peach as well, thank you." The king pauses and tacks on a short request as his guards await his next words. "Please knock when you arrive. I am busy at work and do not wish to have any visitors tonight." The irony in the statement isn't forgotten on him but one of the guards nod, a short bow to their king before exiting his post and leaving down the hall to the lower levels of the kitchens. The door closes just as Sinbad gives a nod of gratitude to the other, bidding him a good night and the silent creak of the door coming to lock makes a clicking noise that bounces in the silence of his room, up to his ears and rings with the calming pulse of blood fading away for now.

He does not care if Judal watches him disappear into the bathroom with a critical eye or lazy mocking amusement while he grabs a glass to fill it with cold water and wetting a rag as well, for the bloodstains on the floor to be wiped away without any questions asked leading to a headache that Judal has a penchant for creating so easily just within the throbbing pulses in his temple. When he comes out he can hear the shallow breaths Judal sounds to be struggling with just to manage, sharp and short notes creasing when an exhale turns dry and burns from his throat as the bloodstains on the floor are attended to, scrubbing off the forming clots before throwing away the rag in the nearest bin for such trash that need not exist if tonight were to be like any other.

Sinbad comes to sit at the side of the bed with a chair previously pulled from his desk, a glass of water brought to Judal and a hand curls back into the strands of Judal's hair, lifting his head and offering the cup to his lips. Seconds turn to minutes of silence while the glass steadily drains until Judal's head turns away and his limbs attempt to retract to his chest, failing pathetically with the little movement as a source of pain striking nerves and burying deep into muscles with licks of fire from all directions. Several swallows sound dry and stick in Judal's throat with the attempts to clear it, failing to do so and forcing down a choke as to preserve what little dignity he believes he has left.

"Are you _pitying_ me, stupid king?" Judal croaks from the dry lashes of his tongue, spitting venom with the accusation carrying weights of heavier sorts of insults latching on and waiting for Sinbad's reaction, possibly to humor himself while this low and unable to do much more—always like Judal to do such arrogant acts in favor of forgetting what is important and what remains as fact. "Or are you playing your games with me?"

Sinbad sighs, glancing at the glass with a remaining bit of water and watching the candles start to dim as time wears on. Tonight shall surely be something to remember, if not to try and forget the constant warring of his thoughts inside his head he bites back with the teeth grinding into his tongue, ignoring the words that whisper in his ears in favor of the stinging that comes from trying to keep himself away from what he wants to know and what he does. "No games, not pitying you." The words that come next are as unavoidable as the inevitable truth of knowing that Judal is meant to be an enemy but as time wears on so does the erosion of right and wrong and the emergence of self-interest. "But perhaps I pity the ones who do not realize what they do to you."

Judal stiffens, watching the few black rukh fluttering around him come to land, chirping harsh dissonance amongst each other to grate at his ears while he processes the words, feeling the anger starting to boil up because the idiotic king knows absolutely _nothing_ about the stupid things that come from his mouth. Nothing at all for the weight that words possess and Judal would not normally care about but for now it's much different, remembering the echoes of harsh insults and taunts when he can barely stand, drained dry and left to bleed out with the urge to just _fix_ himself and get away—but then again Sinbad wouldn't care to know or bother to be concerned, only for his stupid country and his own stupidity would he bother to give any recognizable sign of consideration.

"You are a poor liar, Your Dumbness." Judal hisses, attempting to curl away from the hands that come to his forehead and he can't stand the compassion that isn't there, even if it is he won't tolerate such heinous affections he doesn't need. It bitters his blood and makes the rukh around him fall silent in sudden notice of partaking to the gentle voice Sinbad can pretend to use on him. It won't work, it never will not when he knows Sinbad for the foolish liar he is and how stupid a king can be.

A knock at the door interrupts the conversation, three swift raps to alert the king of the returning guard's presence. Judal makes a pithy noise, teeth clicking together in a growl that stumbles from his throat as the king leaves the bed to answer. The guard on the other side greets him with a courtesy bow, offering a small bowl of fruits and of course on top are two ripe peaches (the small part of paranoia or curiosity wonders if the guard knows more than he should—that's preposterous) and Sinbad takes the bowl, thanking him for the fruit from a sudden request before the door clicks shut again.

"You need to eat, or you won't recover at all." Sinbad comes back and places the bowl near the water, grabbing one of the peaches and testing the tenderness of the flesh with gentle squeezes of his fingers. "Sit still and I'll move you so you can eat by yourself." No room for questions or smirks or whatever else Judal will react with, placing the peach back down to get the same grip as before and carefully move Judal in slow movements, watching for signs of pain besides the occasional hiss and in his head he automatically counts the bruises on Judal's abdomen, moving pillows to support the Magi's back before he can finally let him go, hearing another snarl on Judal's lips knowing it's always going to be the same like this. But the medicine is starting to work when Judal grabs the peach from Sinbad's hand, skinny fingers brushing against Sinbad's thicker ones when he takes the ripe fruit and holds it in his hand, staring at it in silence for a minute. An exasperated look spreads slowly over his face, unamused in the least.

"Not hungry." Judal hisses back, uncaring if he sounds childish when the black rukh start slipping away from him in slowly growing numbers to leave him in silence that he (despises more than anything else) doesn't tolerate easily. "Keep your pathetic gifts to yourself, I don't need your stupid pity." It's true and it's going to stay like this as long as he can help it but if it also means staying the same way of being forced under the same kind of pressure until breaking points and breaking over and over again just to rebuild and retest, always testing with rituals of preparing for the war he's meant to want. The truth is, his fingers still shake when he grips the fruit a little harder under the watchful gaze of the idiot king and rolls his eyes, teeth nudging into breaking the flesh of the fruit and soon met with sweetness he doesn't expect.

Of course in the dark it's harder to see things as they are instead of what they are perceived to be. Judal's eyes widen and Sinbad watches, amusement or curiosity or stupidity because everything he amounts himself to be is _stupid_ and disgusting how white rukh flutter around him and he has the audacity to smile like they're not enemies and Judal would rather kill him than thank him—it's never going to happen don't expect it—but when it comes to showing up here of all places, there is nothing to pardon himself with. At least Sinbad doesn't ask yet. And the peach in his fingers is ripe and juicy and the sugary taste slips down his fingers and oozes when he digs in a little more, stomach protesting from the sudden nourishment of his favorite food after days (he doesn't know how long it's been since the last meal, he prefers sleeping to eating nowadays) and if Sinbad is watching then he better watch and see that Judal isn't the helpless little thing the idiot can try to perceive him as.

When Judal realizes how much of the sweet fruit he's eaten he slows down, making sure to savor the last of it and Sinbad laughs quietly, a chuckle under his breath. "There's more here, just eat as much as you can." Another tentative bite, worrying the flesh like he does with his bottom lip when he gets anxious and can't destroy things to take off the bite of reality and this war that isn't by his own design. Instead he gets to play puppet and do more and more with no time to actually be himself and it's making him lose his mind, angry and frustrated and of course they're not going to care.

So what would make Sinbad any different?

Judal scowls, knowing the answer. _Nothing._

And that's how it's supposed to be.

Though the temptation of peaches is hard to resist, especially when his stomach growls and he can't help but munch away, relishing in the breaking of flesh against his teeth and the sweet pulp over his tongue, dripping down his fingers forgetting for a little while how much his body aches from being pushed too far. As long as it fills his stomach and melts in his mouth he can forget about the days past of months from weeks from hours of working to anger that comes in explosive bouts and then that stupid necklace to keep him in line, drain him to complete helplessness just to keep him in line and remind him how much he hates people.

And then Sinbad just has to interrupt. "What did they do to you, Judal? You've never been this injured before." Which is always truth and Judal despises truths like he does that happy rukh that flutter about him, calm and warm and just too stupidly happy about nothing at all to make Judal keep his temper in check. Of course the idiot wants to know more than he should and then pretend to care because no, he'll never bother to glance at Judal unless if in contempt or silent mocking if he can manage to keep his mouth shut for long enough to actually stay silent. And then he wants to know about what the Kou have been doing to him—it's none of his _business—_ and he can just leave it and then neither will have to explain but by the looks of where he is and the fact that the stupid king (how is he even king—oh, wait, his people are just as stupid as he is) is watching him, waiting for an answer to satisfy him because he's exactly like a child ready to throw a tantrum if he doesn't get what he wants.

"What does it matter to you?" One peach pit left behind in his fingers, prickling his skin and his hair feels disgusting with sweat and dirt clamping onto the strands and not letting him off without a headache starting. He feels dirty and sick and tired and just prefers to go hide away so no idiot can find him and demand more of him—what else is he supposed to give at this point—but Sinbad's expression never wavers when he hands Judal yet another peach as some sort of peace offering like it's going to work. Judal takes the fruit anyway because his stomach is at a standstill of not quite satisfied and feeling too ill to eat much more or perhaps it's the way candlelight flickers over Sinbad's face while he waits, maintaining the same inquisitive stare that bores holes into Judal's flesh.

"There is no reason in maintaining hostility as if we are enemies here." Sinbad says, eyes never wavering when Judal challenges him with a tired glare on the verge of exhaustion to passing out with the want of sleep. What he doesn't know of the inner war—a war he would want—inside Sinbad's head as he takes one side and things start to collapse for reasoning on two separate opinions and what he knows. "I'm not going to take advantage of the fact you are incapable of defending yourself. All I mean to do is aid your recovery. And if you would rather not tell me why you're in this state, then I'll figure it out for myself."

Suddenly the peach in Judal's hand becomes unappetizing as his stomach turns, dropping it on the small table where the other fruits are and refusing to acknowledge any sort of _peace_ the idiot tries to offer. It's no use because he knows better than to trust anyone but his own abilities and it's the only reason why he's still alive. Not back with Kou, listening to rambling about how _useless_ a Magi of his caliber can be when he can't stand, choking on the necklace that tightens with the heavier flow of magoi that chokes him off and forces the blood from his eyes and mouth, the exhaustion that hits and he can't stand no matter how many times those stupid people tell him to. They nag and nag about how weak he is and that he _must_ prepare for war (it's what he wants, don't deny it don't try to say differently) but he'll never be good enough when he's so weak.

"Figure it out, fool." Judal's eyes start to close, remembering the streaks of blood and the same brush of thumb that clear them away as if he could ever _cry_ in a situation like this. "I don't care what you do with yourself, just..." And the words dry over his tongue, mouth feeling full of cotton soaking in sour wine and bitter to the taste when the words evaporate and he can't remember what he means to say which should make him angrier than the fatigue of being awake for too long. He can't remember the last time he slept and Sinbad doesn't need to know _anything._

"We can talk later." Judal barely feels the hands guiding him back down, pillows slipping and his eyes stare straight ahead at the rukh mixing with the black ones of his own, stupid creatures when they chirp to each other so easily while Judal can barely stand the thought of being helped by this stupid fool.

His eyes don't stay open for long, not when the king pulls sheets over Judal in preparation for the chills that come with fever, anger swarming in the pit of his belly like bees and crushed with the little weight of peach that suddenly feels like too much—and the world spins out of focus, Sinbad says something probably stupid as always and one last shuddering breath, still ragged and never able to get enough air for once.

Sinbad watches as Judal fights his eyes, trying to keep them open and his lips pressing into a disappointed frown but it doesn't last for long. "Rest. You won't get better if you don't." It's a half-comforting thought that slips over the tongue easily enough, having already fallen to one side and watching as Judal eventually succumbs to exhaustion, hearing the final heavy sigh before the world turns dark for him.

Glancing back at the desk, Sinbad sees the peach leftover and disposes of the raw pit, thoughts cycling through his head and coming back once again despite the dying protests of the side that loses when his hand comes to Judal's sweat-slick forehead, warmer than usual. In a sudden movement his fingers trail through the dark strands, catching on tangles that gently pull and come undone as long as Sinbad reminds himself to be careful and forget for once what their roles are meant to be. Some people in this world are born with heavy responsibilities, he knows, and he finds that himself and Judal are the same in such a respect.

Never once has he come to think of Judal as not a Magi, not the enemy, nothing but the way he is now, hoarse breaths trying to keep up and the fever that burns high. Tonight he finds Judal as someone wounded who won't accept the need to rely on others with the obvious wounds to his pride. He won't expect it of Judal, of course not with his personality and the fact of that's how he is. Sinbad simply finds it curious that Judal has many facets and up to now he has only seen few others besides the cocky smirk that hides them all.

A thin strand of hair, black silk, twines between his fingers as he watches the rise and fall of Judal's chest underneath the blankets covering all that he has seen and will take longer to process the full meaning of. No color on Judal's eyelids remains but scant traces of black and purple, forgetting the personality that comes to the name of Judal and the kind of person he has made himself to be.

Just for tonight, Sinbad can forget he's supposed to hate him. It's hard to do when he sees past too many things, even if Judal calls him an imbecile and pretends Sinbad doesn't know. He can ignore the fire in his belly, low and still burning despite trying to extinguish the flames for a long time that takes even longer to remember where they began. It's better to forget to think in times like this.

When the hair slips from his fingers he wonders if things will ever remain the same between them. The doubt in the corner of his mind only makes it worse.

Only morning can truly bring the full effect.

* * *

 _Why hello. My name is Novoux, or you can call me Majora. And it looks like I'll be writing more often for this fandom, oh dear. One thing to know about me is that my writing styles are very strange, in a sense. Now to hope I can write much better when I'm not sick like I am now._

 _Thank you for reading._


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